


This War Against Your Faith

by Ingu



Series: This War Against Your Faith [1]
Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: Angst, Homophobic Language, Idiots in Love, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Mind Games, Miscommunication, Mutual Pining, Period-Typical Homophobia, Prisoner's Dilemma, Torture, Translation Available
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-28
Updated: 2015-09-05
Packaged: 2018-04-17 15:50:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 8,917
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4672418
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ingu/pseuds/Ingu
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Napoleon had really hoped to never have to go through a thing like this again. Being strapped once to an electric chair was trauma enough. The last time, he’d had nightmares for weeks after the fact, not that he would ever have told a soul. </p><p>“Hold down that button long enough,” the voice continues, “And your partner will die.”</p><p>It takes a second for the significance of the man’s words to register. Napoleon stills.</p><p>“You want me to kill Peril?”</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Written for [this](http://kinkfromuncle.dreamwidth.org/640.html?thread=31872#cmt31872http://kinkfromuncle.dreamwidth.org/640.html?thread=31872#cmt31872) prompt on the kink meme which requested that Illya and Napoleon be thrown into a prisoner's dilemma situation which demands that they torture/betray each other for freedom. Along the way, feelings accidentally come to the surface. Cleaned up and reposted for AO3. First three chapters are beta-ed by [WayWorseThanScottish](http://archiveofourown.org/users/WayWorseThanScottish/pseuds/WayWorseThanScottish).
> 
> Chinese translation is available [here](http://www.movietvslash.com/thread-181683-1-2.html) (registration required).

Consciousness returns in fragments, slowly piecing back together into a coherent whole. Details are the first things that filter through the fog in Illya’s mind, the bitter cold, the sharp pain in his wrists, the strain in his neck as he sits with his chin against his chest.

Illya stirs, and his eyes open, blinking as they struggle to find focus. The task of lifting his head is an enormous effort, and he stares into the impenetrable darkness around him. A single naked bulb hangs above him emitting pale light. Under him the chair’s surface is hard and unforgiving, sending tendrils of pain shooting up his spine.

Their mission had gone without a hitch, and both Napoleon and Illya had been on their way back to the safehouse where Gaby was to meet them. Napoleon had been in the car beside him, grinning from ear to ear as he offered snide comments about their late target’s sense of personal style. In the thrill of their success, Illya had gotten careless, had let himself get caught up listening to the smooth timbre of Napoleon’s voice. Illya had relaxed into the conversation instead of paying attention to his surroundings, and it had cost them both.

Moments after they slowed to a stop at a red light, the back window of their car had shattered with a spray of glass. Something clunked as it landed inside their vehicle, and the car’s interior had filled rapidly with a cloud of gas.

The next thing Illya knew, he was in this cell.

Illya tries to move, and finds both his ankles strapped to the legs of the chair he’s been left in. Restraints wrap around his legs, along his arms, and his hands, removing any possibility of leveraging his way out of them. Some sort of strange contraption sits on his head like a crown, a mess of metal and wires. He’s trapped.

Fear emerges at the fringes of his mind. He doesn’t know where Napoleon is, he doesn’t know if Gaby is safe, he can see no immediate way out, he doesn’t know who had kidnapped them and had brought him here. The idea that Napoleon is trapped somewhere in here with an unknown enemy sends Illya’s heart racing, and he pushes the panic back down, reminds himself to assess his situation. One way or another, he will find his way out of this.

Somewhere above him, a speaker screeches to life, shooting spikes of pain through Illya’s head. He barely hides a wince, and focuses on his breathing as he waits for his captor to speak. He will need intel if he wants to get both him and Napoleon out of this alive.

“Welcome back to the land of the living, Mr. Kuryakin.”

A disembodied female voice sounds in the room, the only thing recognizable beyond the distortion is the pitch that represents her gender.

Illya gives no reply, and the voice continues in an almost friendly manner.

“I trust you had a nice nap?”

Silence falls as his interrogator waits for his response, and Illya takes a measured breath before he opens his mouth to speak.

“What do you want?”

“Tell me, Mr. Kuryakin, how much do you trust your partner?”

The mention of Napoleon throws Illya, and he greets the question with cautious silence. Trust is a tender subject between the two of them. But ever since joining UNCLE, they have worked well together as partners, and emerged intact from the few tests their relationship has endured.

Do they plan to pit Napoleon and him against each other?

“Do you trust he will not betray you? If offered his freedom?” his captor continues, undeterred.

Mind games. Illya’s breathing quickens, and his hands turn into fists. He imagines the feeling of knuckles striking against flesh.

“Do not play games. Tell me what you want.”

“Oh, now that’s no fun, Mr. Kuryakin,” the voice laughs, “You see, a game is the very reason you are here today.”

There’s a pause over the speakers, and Illya grits his teeth, twisting his wrists in an attempt to loosen his bonds. The leather does not budge.

“You can hurt me as much as you like, but I will not tell you a thing.”

“Oh no, Mr. Kuryakin, I have no plans to hurt you. No, how much pain you suffer will rest entirely in your partner’s hands.”

Illya pauses at those words. Do they intend to make Napoleon watch as they torture him?

“What are you talking about?”

“If you feel along the side of your chair, you will find a button.”

With no better option, Illya does as he is directed, reaching his fingers over the edge of wood. He easily finds the button at the end of the armrest. It’s a small, round thing, an imprint barely the width of his finger.

“Give it a press.”

Illya hesitates a moment, then presses down.

The world explodes in white.

 

-

 

Pain, too familiar, tears through his body. He seizes, frozen, unable to scream, even as his body feels as though it’s disintegrating from the inside. Then, just as suddenly as it came, the pain is gone again, and Napoleon sags into his chair, struggling for air.

This is one repeat experience he could have done well without.

“Your button, Mr. Solo,” the man’s voice sounds through the speaker, irritatingly matter of fact about Napoleon’s torture, “Administers twenty thousand volts of electricity directly to a chair occupied by Mr. Kuryakin.”

“What…?”

The mention of his partner has Napoleon’s eyes darting to the source of the voice somewhere above him. This is the first time Illya has been mentioned by name since Napoleon had woken up strapped to this chair with the most uncomfortable feeling of déjà vu. Their captors know them well enough to have their names. This entire kidnapping, for whatever reason, seems to be specifically targeted towards them.

It is unsettling, to say the least.

“You were both directed to press your buttons at the exact same time, demonstrating its effects," the voice says. "Mr. Kuryakin, as you will be unsurprised to know, has access to a similar gadget, which can administer a significant electrical shock to you.”

Napoleon had really hoped to never have to go through a thing like this again. Being strapped once to an electric chair was trauma enough. The last time, he’d had nightmares for weeks after the fact, not that he would have ever told a soul.

“Hold down that button long enough,” the voice continues, “And your partner will die.”

It takes a second for the significance of the man’s words to register. Napoleon stills.

“You want me to kill Peril?”

“That is certainly one way you will be granted your freedom.”

 

-

 

“That is not going to happen,” growls Illya. His chest is heaving as he fights to control his breathing. Blood rushes in his ears, and Illya’s fingers are twitching as his anger threatens to take over.

“Well, then there is the alternative,” the voice says with a hint of excitement, “You can tell me what I want to know, and you will also be allowed to go free.”

“I am no traitor,” Illya spits out.

“But would you say the same about Mr. Solo?”

Illya opens his mouth to retort, but doubt surges forward, unbidden, and he chokes on his words.

 

-

 

“Illya will not betray me,” Napoleon says with a shrug.

“Your confidence in your partner is heartwarming, Mr. Solo, but you may want to reconsider.”

Their captor is, to his credit and Napoleon’s misfortune, the insistent sort. But some things are just a waste of effort no matter what.

“I am not going to condemn my partner to death.”

“But does he know that, Mr. Solo?”

Napoleon almost laughs. Of course Illya does, they’ve saved each other’s lives too many times for there to be any doubt.

“What of your loyalty to your organization? Do you think he believes you can keep the secrets he’s sworn to protect? You say he would never betray you, but do you think he believes that such loyalty is mutual? Or that it extends to the people holding your leash?”

Well, naturally. Illya can’t doubt him when it comes to UNCLE, can he? Despite his obvious of distaste for his situation, despite the fact that he was technically forced into this life of espionage, Napoleon is a man who knows better than to bite the hand that feeds them. He would never have lasted ten years in the business without understanding the importance of loyalty and discretion.

Illya knows Napoleon is not that kind of man.

He has to.

 

-

 

“If neither of us choose to betray each other?” Illya forces out the words, fighting back the fury that claws at his mind, itching for violence.

Napoleon wouldn’t betray him, and he wouldn’t betray UNCLE, Illya knows, thinks he knows as much. The American's reluctance to follow orders is an act to soothe a bruised ego and nothing more. Neither of them has to play this idiotic game.

“Then you will enjoy the singular pleasure of starving slowly to death in your cell,” says the disembodied voice. “Because I can assure you, even if they do find you, neither of you will be rescued alive.”

 

-

 

To be fair, this is more choice than captors usually give Napoleon.

“So… assuming I did turn, what happens to my partner?”

“We will kill him, of course.” The voice drowns the tiny flame of hope in Napoleon’s chest. “But you will still receive your reward.”

Napoleon sighs quietly, and rolls his eyes.

“So let me get this straight,” he says, trying and failing to shift so he’s more comfortable in his seat. “You want me to either kill Illya Kuryakin personally, or betray my organization to have you do it for me. And all of this in exchange for what you claim will be freedom?”

The entire proposal sounds even more ridiculous when he says it out loud.

“What’s exactly to stop you from putting a bullet in my brain anyway?”

“There’s a saying, Mr. Solo, about honor amongst thieves,” the voice drawls, “I have no desire to go back on my word.”

“You’re claiming to be a thief?”

“I did manage steal both you and Mr. Kuryakin away from your handler, didn’t I?”

Napoleon frowns. It’s true.

 

-

 

“Why are you doing this?” growls Illya, still working at his restraints, trying to free his arms and legs.

“As I said, Mr. Kuryakin, this is a game, one where you get to choose how you and your partner will die. At its conclusion, one of you may survive to die another day, and you can choose to give your partner a fast death in exchange for that privilege. Alternatively, you can both slowly rot away in your chairs, and let the rats take care of your remains.”

As the woman speaks, Illya’s movements still, and he finally gives up on the impossible task of freeing himself.

A cold realization dawns on him then. If he wants to survive this, he has no choice but to play along.

But that would mean killing Napoleon.

 

-

 

Napoleon closes his eyes, wishing not for the first time that he had never stolen that Monet which got him onto this road.

“There is one more thing you should know,” the voice continues. “If both of you choose to betray UNCLE to us, then you will both be tortured until you die, as according to each other’s wishes.”

Napoleon’s eyes open tiredly, and he stares into the darkness.

“Enjoy the game, gentlemen.”


	2. Chapter 2

With a click, the intercom switches off, and Illya is left alone in the room. His breathing is harsh with barely contained rage, and he forces himself to focus, to get his emotions under control. Anger, frustration, none of it is going to help him when he is trapped in this chair.

He needs to get out, he needs to find Napoleon, but with these restraints around his limbs there is nothing he can do.

The reminder of his helplessness has Illya’s fury threatening a resurgence, and he closes his eyes, grasping at anything that would distract him from his unneeded emotional reactions. Illya focuses on the steady tick of his father’s watch, on a memory of Napoleon, who looks at him sometimes with that smile that should be infuriating but only makes Illya ache inside. He pictures Gaby’s reproving glare when she sees them after this, that tiny café where the three of them had shared pastries and sweets in Prague, the startling blue of Napoleon’s eyes under the Tuscan sun.

Slowly, his breathing steadies, and Illya’s eyes open.

Their situation is unpleasant, but somehow, they will get out of this.

Illya will not accept anything else.

 

-

 

He’s received no further electrical shocks in the immediate aftermath of their captor’s revelations, and Napoleon finds comfort in the fact that Illya, wherever he may be, seems to be in no rush to condemn him. The unwelcome image of Gaby’s uncle, burning alive in his electric chair, floats to the forefront of his mind, and Napoleon grimaces at the memory.

Napoleon’s never had illusions about his longevity, but that is decidedly one of the ways he would prefer not to die.

Illya wouldn’t kill him, Napoleon thinks, at least not immediately. Though Napoleon wants to believe that they’re long past the point of suspicion, it’s not something he can state with as much confidence as he’d like. The fact that Napoleon has also made no attempts to shock him should help convince Illya that Napoleon has no intention of becoming a traitor.

A tiny voice at the back of his mind tells him that Illya might already be dead, all of this an elaborate ruse to manipulate Napoleon into cooperation. Napoleon quiets the voice with obstinate denial, ignoring the way his heart stutters at the thought of Illya being gone.

He’s not going to let Illya die, that much he knows for certain.

Then there’s just one question, how to bend the rules to his advantage and get them both out?

“So,” Napoleon says, hoping someone is listening, “What exactly do you want to know?”

The intercom crackles to life.

“To start with, perhaps you could tell me the location of UNCLE’s base of operations.”

“And potentially turn over every agent and asset in the organization…” Napoleon muses with a moue, “You guys drive a hard bargain.”

“Well, in exchange not just for your life, but for your personal freedom, I believe it’s a fair demand,” the voice says, “Why, you could simply fake your death and disappear. Instead of being made to follow orders, you could live a more pleasant life, one on your own terms.”

Now that is… something. Napoleon’s heart does a traitorous leap at the future his captor paints. If it wouldn’t come at the cost of Illya’s life, Napoleon may even seriously consider their offer. It was only luck that had let the CIA catch him the first time, with everything he’s learnt in the past decade, it would be too easy to disappear back into the world for good.

Talk of honor aside, Napoleon would be lying if he said he wasn’t an opportunist.

But that would mean killing Illya, and suddenly, Napoleon’s fantasy feels tainted.

Napoleon frowns. When had the intimidating Russian become so important as to outweigh Napoleon’s need for freedom? The times Napoleon had let him live was because he knew he had a good chance of surviving the encounter, regardless of whether the enemy agent was dead or alive. Sure, the man was handsome and nice to look at, certainly, and cut a striking figure the few times the mission put in him in a bespoke suit. And perhaps he makes the most adorable perplexed faces when he realizes he’d enjoyed indulging in a capitalist luxury (like those Twinkies Gaby bought one time). And perhaps he had a collection of strangely endearing quirks that had only came to light after you got to know him a bit more. And yes, maybe they had saved each other’s lives a few times in the field.

But there is no reason for this level of attachment.

“I must say,” Napoleon says, thinking it’d be discourteous to ignore his captor, “You are very kind for a murderous kidnapper.”

“Our quarrel is not with you, Mr. Solo, it is with your organization. Give us UNCLE, and we can come to a mutually beneficial arrangement.”

It’s really too bad he won’t be saying yes.

“Forgive me if I say this all sounds a little too good to be true.”

“You underestimate the sincerity of our gratitude, should you make the right decision.”

“Hm.”

 

-

 

He’s trained for this – torture, interrogation – he knows their tricks, the traps to watch out for, and he’s not going to fall for their manipulations.

“You can give up,” says Illya, “I will not turn traitor against my people.”

“Perhaps, Mr. Kuryakin,” the voice almost sounds bored, and it grates on Illya’s nerves. “But maybe you won’t have to. Mr. Solo seems to be far more agreeable at the moment, especially when we described the potential benefits of his cooperation.”

“He will not betray me.”

“I’m not so sure, Mr. Kuryakin. Unlike you, he seems to have a genuine distaste for playing some teabag’s toy soldier. That American obsession with individuality, freedom, and whatnot, I suppose.”

Illya’s jaw works. The woman is right, and he hates that she is right. As much as Napoleon enjoys the perks of life and travel on another’s dime, he has never shown appreciation for the job itself. The man’s never hidden the fact, with his displays of exasperation and resignation at every turn. Since the start, Napoleon’s loyalty had been secured through coercion, and Illya had zeroed in on the fact at the start of their first mission together.

It had earned him humiliation and another violent episode he’d barely contained.

“I am not going to kill Solo.”

“It won’t be hard, just hold the button down for about five seconds, and it would be done.”

Illya doesn’t dignify her words with an answer.

“Please forgive me, Mr. Kuryakin.” All of a sudden, the voice becomes excited. “But you seem very attached to this American agent. Are they not technically your enemy? I’d think your superiors would be delighted if you dispatched one of America’s top agents for them.”

Illya grits his teeth. “It is not going to happen.”

“Well,” says the voice, with no hint of disappointment, “Then it’s been a pleasure knowing you.”

 

-

 

In the relative discomfort of sitting strapped to an electric chair, Napoleon assesses his options.

One, he can take their captors’ offer and betray UNCLE, condemning Illya to death in exchange for his own freedom, as long as Illya doesn’t see fit to betray him in return.

Two, he can murder Illya outright with his button and preserve UNCLE secrets, but still gain his freedom.

Three, he can stay in this chair indefinitely and live as long as his body can cope without food or water. Which would be four or five days, at most, and that is not considering the issue of waste management.

 

-

 

Killing Napoleon is clearly the best option. Illya doesn’t have to be a genius to understand the fact. As much as he wants to hold out for rescue, he knows that the likelihood of UNCLE finding them in time is slim.

Any other option would lead to his death, or worse, UNCLE would be compromised, and both Gaby and Waverly would be in mortal danger.

 

-

 

But if it’s information they want, why would they be willing to let one of them die and the other one leave without getting anything out of them?

Torture for torture’s sake. Uncle Rudi’s voice returns to Napoleon again, unwanted and unbidden. Just what is it with these ‘mysterious organizations’ and their population of sadists? It would certainly make an intimidating statement, leaving the mangled corpses of their top agents out for their superiors to find. Maybe it would inspire their respective countries to join forces a second time and find the root of this evil.

Napoleon wonders if he won’t start going crazy if he stays in this chair too long.

 

-

 

But would Napoleon truly turn against him? Illya can’t pretend that it’s impossible. They’ve both shown themselves capable of betrayal when they burned that disk in Rome, committing treason for what had seemed like the greater good so they wouldn’t have to kill each other. But Illya had been prepared to fire his weapon that day, and end Napoleon’s life for all his charm and grace and his heart stopping smile.

What is Illya worth to Napoleon? Napoleon’s displeasure at being kept with Illya as a team had been obvious in his reaction to Waverly's announcement.

More importantly, what does it matter to Illya what Napoleon thinks of him?

Illya sits, frozen, wondering when he had gotten this sentimental about the American. The woman is right, his superiors would be delighted to be rid of the CIA’s top spy, and UNCLE can simply find him another partner if they still wanted to keep him in the fold. They will not be as capable as Cowboy, but Illya is good enough on his own to handle any mission he is given.

The truth is, despite his wishful thinking, Illya doesn’t know. He doesn’t know if right now, Napoleon is telling their captors every single secret he is privy to and leaving Illya to die. If he is being freed from his bonds this very moment, or if his fingers are reaching for that button which will administer thousands of volts of electricity to this chair.

What is Napoleon Solo worth to Illya Kuryakin?

 

-

 

If he had a choice, Napoleon would never have confronted this question by himself. Yet now, with both their lives on the line, he cannot stop obsessing over it.

Does Illya truly trust him?

He thinks Illya has to know that Napoleon’s disdain for his circumstances only goes as far as petulance. He’s worked for the CIA for ten years, with many chances along the way to disappear for good that he has never once taken. 

Perhaps this is different, his relationship to UNCLE only budding and the price of loyalty no longer just a short leash but certain death. The stakes have never been higher before this moment. Freedom, or death, this should be a no-brainer for a man like Napoleon Solo.

Yet he can never condemn Illya to dying this way.

Illya, limp in a chair, eyes glassy and unseeing as blood drips from his eyes, nose, and mouth. The mental image alone has Napoleon’s heart pounding in his chest, struggling to control his breathing, and he recognizes that it’s something he will never allow to happen.

He tells himself that it’s pride, that it’s basic respect owed to a friend, that if he is ever to kill Peril it will be on his own terms. He refuses to let himself be manipulated into this kind of murder. Illya deserves better than this.

His loyalty, Napoleon understands with a sudden and terrifying clarity, is not to UNCLE. Not to Waverly, a man he barely knows beyond their debriefings. His loyalty is not even to his country, which Napoleon had too eagerly left behind once Europe became his new playground. For the longest time, Napoleon had believed his loyalty belonged to himself. 

But that is no longer true.

He would rather die here with Illya than be the one to end his life.

 

-

 

Illya begins to struggle in his bonds, even though he knows nothing will come of his attempts. He recognizes his fear, yet it was not born of idea of his own death, but Napoleon’s. And it is the strength of his own reaction that disturbs him the most.

They’re friends, and this sort of discomfort is natural, Illya thinks, he would feel the same way if Gaby is the one facing the choice of death or betrayal. Yet even as he imagines the scene, he realizes he’s wrong. His traitorous mind offers a thread of relief instead of fear and anger of matching intensity, as though Illya would appreciate that Napoleon be the one who is safe from torture instead of Gaby.

They are friends, Illya thinks, even if neither of them has acknowledged the fact out loud. So what if he has difficulty with keeping his eyes off of Napoleon sometimes? So what if Napoleon’s mischievous smile and the twinkle in his eyes when he looks to Illya in a challenge makes him bristle from more than just anger? So what if he has to force himself to focus on the tick of his father’s watch, on his game of chess, on whatever record is playing in the room, just so he doesn’t have to pay attention to Napoleon’s flirtations with anonymous women? So what if he’s found himself longing to close the distance between them whenever Napoleon strays too close? Has been sometimes preoccupied with considering the feeling of Napoleon’s lips against his skin? Found himself picturing Napoleon in bed with women on more than one occasion? His frustration has always been with the American agent’s unprofessionalism, with his obsessive need to waste his attention on civilians.

It’s normal to not want a friend to die, it’s normal to feel this level of terror, and reluctance. It’s normal for the thought of Napoleon’s death to make him feel like screaming… like crying.

It doesn’t mean… it doesn’t mean…

 

-

 

Napoleon would give up his freedom, give up UNCLE, give up his life, if that’s what it takes for Illya to get out of this alive.

The implications of his realization slowly sink in, and Napoleon holds back a groan. He scrunches his eyes closed with a grimace.

Lust is simple, lust is something Napoleon can navigate and repress with ease, has repressed with ease whenever Illya’s hard body had pressed too close as they hid from enemy guards, when Illya’s occasionally soaked shirt clings tightly and shows off the lines of his muscles. He has become an expert at controlling his reactions, especially around the Russian, reminding himself to breathe and to speak evenly like a man who has not just lost half his functions to need whenever Illya does something infuriatingly distracting.

Yet here, strapped to this chair with the weight of both their lives hanging over his neck, Napoleon is forced to acknowledge the context for those feelings he had stubbornly decided to ignore. His childish insistence to constantly steal Illya’s watch just so the man will corner him and demand for its safe return. How he will stop and buy new and random baked treats at every opportunity just to watch Illya’s reaction when he tries them for the first time. Why he will go repeatedly back to the chessboard despite being decimated every time he plays against the Russian. All of his actions now stand in a new light.

Of all the times to realize he’s somehow fallen in love with his partner. Of all the people he could have fallen for out of the countless he’s ever met.

Napoleon doesn’t quite panic, yet the realization that he is probably going to die in this chair doesn’t match his fear that he’ll lose Illya to this nightmare.

…but only one of them has to die.

He barely finishes the thought when the white-hot burn of electricity tears through him a second time. This time, Napoleon finds the ability to scream.


	3. Chapter 3

“I think you boys have set a new record,” says Waverly, reading over the files on his lap with a worried frown. “It took you less than thirty minutes before you decided to literally kill each other.”

The folder flips closed, and Waverly drops the documents onto the desk between them. Across from him, his agents sit with their heads hanging.

Since the moment Illya stepped into the office to find both Waverly and Napoleon seated, Napoleon has not stopped staring at the Russian. The American’s gaze carries an intensity Waverly has never seen from the agent outside of missions, and Illya stubbornly refuses to meet Napoleon’s eyes. Being no mind-reader, Waverly can only interpret their tension as shame and guilt.

“I didn’t,” says Illya, his voice still rough from his screams. In a disturbing display of their countries’ boasts of mutually assured destruction, Napoleon had triggered his own button barely a second after Illya’s own was activated.

The Russian, acting far more self-conscious than usual, clears his throat with a cough, shifting in his seat as he turns to stare at the wall.

“You didn’t what, Mr. Kuryakin?” Waverly says, his patience running thin in his disappointment.

The entire kidnapping and interrogation had been elaborately staged to test the strength of the pair’s partnership and loyalty to UNCLE. Where Waverly supervised and goaded Mr. Solo himself, Ms. Teller had looked after Mr. Kuryakin. As these exercises usually went, the pair of loyal agents would be left bound to their chairs for a maximum of 48 hours, and close to every partnership before Solo and Kuryakin had passed with flying colours, choosing to die together over giving up each other or UNCLE. Those who chose to murder their partner in cold blood were reassigned to solo missions, or desk duty if their talents were not impressive, while those who willingly gave up UNCLE saw a decidedly more permanent end to their previous employment arrangements.

Their projections had predicted that Solo would break first under the promise of freedom, yet Waverly finds now he had grossly miscalculated the level of animosity between the two agents. Solo’s actions may be forgivable in these circumstances, as it is arguably self-defence. But Kuryakin’s behaviour has no such excuse.

So here he is, with two guilty and distracted agents before him, awaiting their fate.

Illya takes a ragged breath. “I didn’t try to kill him.”

Waverly raises an eyebrow.

“Gaby said five seconds kills him, I did two.”

“So you willingly tortured your partner instead of murdering him. I don’t see how that is much of an improvement, Mr. Kuryakin.”

Illya quiets, and sulks instead of giving any more explanation. Instead, it’s Napoleon who speaks, finally breaking out of his imitation of a Greek statue.

“Only one of us had to die,” he says, anger tinting the edges of his words as he finally turns his gaze to Waverly.

“That is indeed the rule,” Waverly says. “Do you care to elaborate, Mr. Solo?”

“Your game, if one of us kills the other or gives up UNCLE, the murderer gets to go free. We both give up UNCLE, we both die.”

Illya’s eye twitches at the mention of murder, and Waverly looks between the two, waiting for the punchline.

“You said nothing about not being allowed to hurt each other.”

Waverly shifts in his seat then, starting to make sense of the point Napoleon is making. He straightens into a more comfortable position, and considers his two agents.

“We didn’t think making rules for that possibility was necessary.” His agents are supposed to be loyal to each other, and the potentiality that they would willingly cause each other pain had not been seriously considered. Though now, that is clearly an oversight.

“Loophole,” Illya grumbles then. “Way to communicate.”

What could Kuryakin have possibly tried to communicate through subjecting his partner to electrocution? The onset of sudden shock and pain would only lead people to jump to one conclusion in such a life or death situation, and the Russian can’t possibly be  _that stupid_.

“So, Mr. Kuryakin, let me see if I have this straight. You pressed the button and electrocuted Mr. Solo deliberately, but not with the intention of killing him?”

Illya hesitates, his eyes flickering to Solo. “Yes.”

The Russians never make anything easy, do they? “And what, pray tell, were your true intentions?”

“He wanted me to kill him.” Napoleon’s voice sounds, the temperature in the room seems to drop sharply.

Illya blinks.

“He pressed that button so I would think he’s trying to kill me, so I might retaliate and murder him instead. He wanted to sacrifice himself so I would be the one to go free.”

Illya freezes, then head whips in Napoleon’s direction, his expression so bewildered he almost looks vulnerable. Napoleon returns his attention in kind, a challenge in his eyes that demands an explanation.

Waverly opens his mouth, trying to process the weight behind Napoleon’s words. If UNCLE had truly stuck to the rules of the game, what Solo has just described… may very well work.

“Is this true, Mr. Kuryakin?”

Illya stares at Napoleon, whose expression is stony and unwavering. Waverly isn’t sure if he finds what he’s looking for.

“Yes,” the Russian grumbles, blinking and turning away. He looks disturbingly like a confused kitten.

Waverly audibly sighs, recalling Illya’s dossier – internationally ranked chess master, strategist, the KGB’s best spy. His solution may be unorthodox, but it was creative, and certainly unexpected. He wonders if he shouldn’t have given more credit to the man, especially since now it’s apparent that Kuryakin is willing to die for Napoleon Solo, a man he has every ideological right to hate.

Waverly watches the two agents. Their tension is a palpable force in the room, and perhaps it’s best to let them sort out their feelings in their own time. He thinks about going back to the psychologists and refining the scenario, of fixing the paperwork so this element of Kuryakin’s psyche is properly reflected, of giving the pair an A for their performance instead of failing them both.

“Well, in that case, you’re both excused,” Waverly says, pulling the folder back towards himself.

The two agents glance toward him, and then stand. Napoleon, still unsteady on his feet, wavers a little as he straightens. Illya’s gaze darts to his partner, his hand twitching as though he means to reach forward and steady the other agent.

_Interesting._

“Before you go, Mr. Solo, could you clarify one more thing for me?”

Napoleon pauses as he goes to open the door, and turns back towards Waverly. Illya, trapped between Napoleon’s outstretched arm and the wall, shrinks back into himself.

“What is it?”

“How did you know of Mr. Kuryakin’s true intentions?”

For the first time, Napoleon hesitates. He looks once towards Illya, who is busy staring at anything but Napoleon, and then back towards Waverly.

“I was planning to do the same myself.”

Napoleon’s voice is so soft Waverly almost doesn’t catch it. When he comprehends the meaning, his first instinct is laughter. Waverly only restrains the urge with well-practiced control.

So the devotion goes both ways.

Solo and Kuryakin are truly two of a kind, Waverly thinks, as he watches the American agent make his leave. He was right to pair them as partners.

The door clicks closed behind Solo, and Waverly glances at Illya. He finds the Russian agent rooted to the floor, staring at the door with his eyes wide. It takes a full minute before the Russian snaps out of his shock, and dashes out of the room.

The door clicks shut a second time, and Waverly toys with the pen in his hand as he flips open the agents’ dossier folder.

_Very interesting indeed._


	4. Chapter 4

Illya finds Napoleon in the small office they share, and when he walks in, Napoleon is sitting at his desk, staring off into space. There’s a blank page of paper sitting in front of him, still unmolested by Napoleon’s messy scrawl.

The tap tap tap of pen against paper stops. Napoleon looks up at Illya, and smiles with an expression that is far too measured to be entirely genuine. His bright blue eyes crinkle at the edges. 

Something twists in Illya’s gut.

Napoleon’s smile slowly shifts into a confused frown, and Illya realises he’s stared too long. He looks away, self-conscious, and strides over to his own desk. He pulls out his chair and takes a seat, folding his long legs in front of him. There is a small stack of new paperwork sitting there, and he diligently reaches for it.

In the time it’s taken for him to walk (or if Illya is honest with himself, to not run) from Waverly’s office to theirs, the racing beat of his heart has slowed. But there is still a tightness in his chest he doesn’t know how to be rid of. Napoleon had been prepared to die for him, and Illya doesn’t know what to make of the fact. His emotions twist and tangle together inside, and he can barely discern relief from gratitude from something too strong to be called joy. 

He wants to reach out. Wants to pull Napoleon into his arms and just hold on for a while. Because up until that very last second before the power cut out he had been certain Napoleon was going to kill him. Yet the pain had stopped and the entire room had flooded with light and then the door was being thrown open, and Waverly was standing there with a dark expression on his face. 

Illya had gone through Medical in a state of lingering panic and confusion, asking repeatedly where Napoleon was and where Gaby was and where Waverly was and only being told that he will see them very soon.

Then he was opening the door to the office, and Napoleon had been waiting, complete and whole and looking up at him with barely concealed rage. 

Now, Napoleon is sitting right in front of him, and somehow he still doesn’t seem solid. The world holds the strange fragility of a fever dream.

Illya glances up, finds Napoleon staring at him, and immediately looks back down at his papers, focusing on making sense of the English words.

He wants to reach for Napoleon, he wants to touch, and the sheer wrongness of his desires screams out in his mind. Illya wants… things. But Illya is not one of _them_. He is not perverted, not sick. And neither is Napoleon, who has slept with more than enough women to clinch the point. Illya’s insulting them both with this stubborn, terrible hope in his heart that refuses to go away. He still wants Napoleon… in some way, has fantasised about terrible, horrendous things, wanting to ki-

No. No.

Napoleon cares for Illya deeply, and that point has been made obvious by the truths uncovered moments ago in Waverly’s office. And Illya cannot betray him. They are partners, the willingness to die for each other is expected of them, Illya thinks, and in a situation where only one of them can survive, it makes sense that Napoleon may consider Illya the more valuable agent and offer to sacrifice himself. All of it makes sense. It doesn’t mean either of them are perverts.

-

Illya has the most intense and perplexed expression on his face, and Napoleon thinks it is criminal how adorable Illya’s made himself look. Illya Kuryakin is supposed to be ruthless, stoic, and intimidating, a model of Russian bravery and discipline. He’s not supposed to inspire the same feelings inside Napoleon as a sad puppy. But somehow the man manages it anyway.

“You don’t have to look so guilty, you know,” Napoleon says, his expression softening despite his apprehension. “We both shocked each other, we both tried to sacrifice ourselves, I’d say that makes us pretty even.”

Illya glances up at him, and for a fleeting moment Napoleon sees heartbreak. The expression is caged and shuttered in the next instant, and Illya looks down again, unreadable. It sends alarm bells ringing in Napoleon’s mind. 

He had been angry in the office, strung on adrenaline and exhaustion and the shock of understanding that all of it had been a test. Napoleon had felt furious that Illya thought so little of his own life that he’d throw it away for Napoleon, and he had not tried to hide it with his usual flippant charm. 

“You know I’m not mad at you, right?” Napoleon says carefully, “I know I acted… poorly, in Waverly’s office. But I-”

That’s not it. Napoleon’s words only make Illya tense further, and he swallows back his remaining platitudes. All unfortunate realizations (and budding hopes) aside, somewhere along the road of their partnership, sights of Illya in such obvious distress drove Napoleon into adopting immediate countermeasures. Any means necessary to ease the tension from those wide shoulders. Sometimes, it involves distraction, turning Illya’s focus to something shinier and more worthy of his valuable attention. At other times, it takes delicate prodding to get the man to open up.

And then there are the times that require misdirection, and baiting Illya into using Napoleon as a target to vent his frustrations.

“I mean I thought I was pretty clever for figuring out the loophole, but then you acted first and, okay, I was a little ticked off by that. But I promise I won’t hold it against you.”

-

“Did you believe I was going to kill you?”

The words spill out and Illya freezes before he turns his gaze to Napoleon, watching carefully for a response. The American just blinks at him for a moment, caught by surprise, before he seems to relax. Illya doesn’t know what to make of the softness in Napoleon’s eyes.

“No, Illya. I didn’t think you were actually going to kill me.”

Illya studies Napoleon’s face, watching for any hint of dishonesty. Napoleon sits and accepts Illya’s scrutiny, even as he makes tiny faces to demonstrate his discomfort. 

Illya frowns. Napoleon is a good liar when he tries to be, so much that even Illya has trouble telling when he is serious and when he is saying things he believes others want to hear. But Illya can’t see any sign of Napoleon being deceitful, and the part of him that wants to take Napoleon at his word wins out in the end.

Illya doesn’t know why it’s so important, but the thought that Napoleon still trusts him, even after Illya had willingly tortured him, makes him feel lighter, and it’s easier to breathe. Illya had tried to hurt him, tried to manipulate him into doing what he wanted, and as much as he tells himself that he did what was necessary, that Napoleon will understand, there had been a suffocating time when he didn’t know if he had ruined their partnership for good. 

But Napoleon saw right through him, and Illya wonders if it’s cowardly to feel so much relief.

-

“You know, I have to say that I am genuinely touched by how much you care.”

At any other time, this will earn him a withering glare or a huffy sigh (or both, if Napoleon is particularly lucky). But in this moment, Illya stares up at him with wide eyes and lips pressed so tight Napoleon can almost call it a pout. Napoleon wants to kiss that miserable expression from Illya’s face.

He squashes the thought before it can lead him too far off track, and offers his most disarming smile like his heart hasn’t just started racing in his chest.

“So is it fair to assume that you do trust me?” He grins, a face of innocence.

There’s a problem he needs an answer to and it’s not one he can simply ask aloud. For one, it’s not how Napoleon works. Two, how do you even broach a subject like this when it’s another man? And a man who grew up being brainwashed by Stalinist propaganda at that. They’re not sitting in a very special type of bar nursing glasses of whiskey, there’s no mutual friend here to introduce them both as friends of Dorothy, and nothing in Napoleon’s usual arsenal of tricks makes much sense when the person he faces is Illya. He’d probably punch him if Napoleon tried a line on him, or maybe just stare at him with confused puppy eyes.

“I may see you… as friend,” Illya says eventually, his accent thicker than usual. Napoleon grins, feeling suddenly giddy with victory. If it always takes Illya such an absurd amount of time and pressure to even make such a tiny confession, this is a definite achievement.

Suddenly the fact that Illya and Gaby never went through with their kiss makes a lot more sense.

He’s reading too much into Illya’s decisions, Napoleon thinks. Just because Napoleon managed to ponder his way into an epiphany while strapped to an electric chair doesn’t mean Illya’s experiences were the same. But some part of him, the part that dictates Napoleon will forever be a slave to his own impulses, will lie and cheat and steal to get something as long as it’s beautiful, has recognized Illya Kuryakin as the worst kind of temptation. 

He needs to know. 

“That’s… a long moment of hesitance there,” Napoleon teases with a lighthearted smile, and then, because he’s feeling particularly suicidal. “So only as a friend?”

-

Illya’s first instinct is that Napoleon _knows_ , that somehow he’s sensed Illya’s vile thoughts and urges under his mask of normality. Napoleon is tense. Illya sees it, even if the other man still makes a show of being relaxed. He knows Napoleon too well by now to miss the undercurrent of unease behind the playfulness in his tone. Illya imagines the fondness in Napoleon’s eyes turning into disgust, his warmth into wariness and winter.

“Would you rather I take back what I just said?” Illya says, in a deadpan that does not betray a hint of his panic.

Napoleon stares at him without expression for a second, before he snaps out of whatever trance he’d been caught in. “Really?” he says, scandalized. “You can’t just play with people’s emotions like that, Peril.” 

“Said pot to kettle.” He counters, pointedly turning his attention back to his neglected paperwork. Napoleon won’t know, he’ll never know.

His retort actually manages to silence the American for a moment, and then there is a murmured, “Touché.”

The matter dropped for the moment, Illya almost starts to let himself relax. Then Napoleon opens his mouth again.

“Still, people don’t usually try to sacrifice their own lives just to protect a friend,” Napoleon says, oblivious to the way his words slide between Illya’s ribs like knives. “I mean, that someone would have to be pretty important to you. They’d have to be family… or maybe a lover.” 

-

There’s no telling how Peril will react to his suggestion, which, now that Napoleon thinks about it, will probably be taken as an attack on his manhood. But something tells Napoleon he’s not going to get a chance like this again. It’s a gamble, it’s a risk, but it’s one he’s willing to take. 

With one sentence, Napoleon marches past the point of safe return. 

Napoleon braces himself for rage, for some sort of offended outburst. But Illya, interestingly, doesn’t react. The Russian just stares at his paperwork like it holds the answer to all of life’s mysteries, as though he hadn’t even heard Napoleon speak.

Then Illya blinks, and Napoleon remembers to breathe again.

“That’s a good question,” Illya says. He looks up and Napoleon sees darkness in his eyes, fixed on him as a beast regards its prey. For a strange moment he feels like he’s back in a hotel room, and the space between them bridged by a chess game Napoleon is two moves away from losing. For a strange moment it's as though Illya’s hands have settled at his back, and they are staring out together over a bottomless pit of icy water. “Why did you try to save me?”

Illya gives only a nudge, and Napoleon falls head first into a trap of his own making.

“I asked you first,” Napoleon says, feeling all of thirteen years old. His heart thunders in his chest.

“Because you see me as family, Solo? Or maybe you’re someone with _perverted_ tastes for other men.”

Illya spits out the word like an insult, and Napoleon realizes too late he’s read the situation terribly wrong. This isn’t what was meant to happen. 

“That’s… taking things a bit too far,” he says with too much hurry and a laugh that misses charming by a mile. He looks away from Illya and finds himself still cornered. 

But what had he expected? Was Illya going to shyly confess that he was one of… those men? Were they going to kiss? Confess their undying love for each other? What was Napoleon thinking? He wasn't thinking at all.

“Then tell me, Cowboy, were you lying when you said you intended to also save my life?”

“No.”

The speediness of his answer seems to take Illya by surprise, and there is a bare moment of hesitation before he says his next words. 

“Then why did you try to save me?”

Napoleon can only watch, caught by the detachment, the calculation in Illya’s eyes. He opens his mouth, trying to arrange his words into something that doesn’t feel like self-betrayal. 

“You’re… very important to me,” Napoleon says. Then, because he is a coward, he explains. “A good friend.”

Napoleon falls silent, knowing he’s pushed this too far. The man he’d thought of just moments ago as a puppy transformed into a fearsome wolf, its teeth bared and ready to go for the jugular.

“Then you should have your answer.” 

-

Napoleon stares past Illya with wounded, startled eyes, and Illya feels like filth.

He doesn’t know. He doesn’t want to know the reason Napoleon asked him what he did, if he has really seen through every single reprehensible thought Illya’s ever had about other men and about Napoleon himself. If he’d really noticed but had simply not said anything until a moment ago, when Illya’s actions had laid out his feelings for anyone dissect. Illya hadn’t meant to insult him, hadn’t meant to come across as mistrusting, as weak, again, acting impulsively instead of waiting and biding his time like he should have.

Illya’s shame is his own, it will only ever be his own, and if he has to turn the accusation on Napoleon himself to get out of this intact, then that’s what he’ll do. At least this way, there might still be a chance that Napoleon will forgive him.

Illya rises from his chair, unable to bear another second of being in the same room as Napoleon. In the next moment he’s at the door, and he pretends his hands are not shaking as he wrenches the door open.

Why does he feel like this? Napoleon is another man, and you do not develop this sort of… attachment, to someone built the same way you are. It’s unnatural, it’s despicable, and that’s not who Illya is. He’s supposed to be better, supposed to be stronger. He had promised himself he would never be like them. He’d never hurt him.

He won’t betray Napoleon.

-

The door clicks closed, leaving Napoleon alone in a space that is somehow too empty and too suffocating all at the same time. 

He should have waited, Napoleon thinks. No. He should never have asked to begin with. The memory of Illya’s cold, reproachful glare plays in his mind on repeat, intercut by the memory of Illya’s hands, trembling as he had made for the door. 

Napoleon’s face scrunches with a grimace, and he sighs, his head falling back in defeat. Now he’s gone and screwed everything up, trying to grasp at something that will never be.

The worst thing is, for some strange, ridiculous reason, Napoleon had genuinely thought it might happen, that Illya might feel the same way. He’s had so much confidence in his ability to read between the lines, to discern intentions and distinguish every possible shade of emotion that exists between loathing and lust. But now, he wonders if he’s only ever seen what he wanted to see during those brief moments in the office. Illya had been so unguarded. And Napoleon had thought he saw something like longing, like loss, in those pale eyes.

This is why you’re never meant to fall in love with your marks. Sooner or later, your own emotions will start blinding you to the truth. Knowing Illya, he’d probably tackled the situation with cold, hard logic. There was no point in both of them dying when one could walk away alive. Since Illya was not going to be a traitor, it meant Napoleon had to live, and Illya had to make sure it happened before Napoleon’s delicate will snapped and he started divulging UNCLE secrets. So, an electric shock, a little bit of manipulation, et voilà, they’re both sitting in Waverly’s office like guilty children. 

The last time Napoleon let himself get so deep, he got caught by the CIA. He wonders if UNCLE isn’t the same thing all over again. Just this time, instead of a soft body and a sultry smile, there’s someone with hard muscle and grim scowls, and strong arms and hidden smiles, and makes you feel like nothing else in the world matters as long as he’s watching you with those eyes.

His hand hurts. Napoleon glances down to find that sometime during the last half hour, he had crushed his pen. He opens his fist, and shards of plastic fall onto the desk, the bent ink tube lands on the paper, red blossoms across white.

Napoleon stares at the stain on his hands, and laughs softly to himself.

**Author's Note:**

> I was trying to figure out ways to bring them together and ended up plotting out an enormous story arc that will take the plot very, very far from the original prompt. In the end I decided it was better just to leave things here. ~~There might be a sequel. Maybe. No promises. But watch out.~~ If you'd like to see where things go from here, the [WIP sequel](http://archiveofourown.org/works/4774178) is now available.
> 
> Title taken from ['You Know What They Do to Guys Like Us In Prison'](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8omHUHK4iXc) by My Chemical Romance.


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